


muse, thou art a small tiny dick

by nayt0reprince



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Gift Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 03:25:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11935317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: writing is hard. fortunately, akira’s always there in some roundabout way to give mishima some ideas and inspiration





	muse, thou art a small tiny dick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MakioKuta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MakioKuta/gifts).



> well hello hi it’s me ree here to deliver u the freshest of fics right to ur doorstep. it’s delivery, not dirginio. this time i be writing for my homie maki, who’s birth is happening in a few days. so like, hap birth, makintine, hope u enjoy

Mishima rapped his fingers along his temples for what felt like the eighteenth time in the past hour as his gaze, sharpened like the bean grinder’s blades, bore holes into his uncooperative laptop screen and its taunting side-kick, the accursed blank word doc. Beside him, the coffee mug (sporting a pudgy cartoon cat with the words, “You _nyan_ do it!” scrawled along the bottom - a certain _somebody_ found it to be utterly hilarious) already cooled, the coffee untouched. Early 2010’s pop music spat out from the tinny speakers, not providing the aid he thought it would. Scowling, he slammed both hands onto the keyboard, typed a sentence, deleted it, and swore when he banged his knee while trying to stand up in frustration. 

A bemused Akira glanced over from behind the counter. “Not going well?”

“I need a cigarette. Sojiro will be here soon, right?”

“You don’t even smoke. And no, he won’t. He and Futaba are having a father-daughter game night.”

The nighttime news prattled on in the background - _What a beautiful sunny day it’s turning out to be tomorrow,_ said a newscaster, _and temps will continue to climb as we reach eight o’clock in the morning_ \- as Mishima paced back and forth in LeBlanc’s empty dining area. He snapped his fingers.

“Where’s Morgana? Does he need to be walked?”

Akira coughed, covering up what Mishima _swore_ to be a snort. “He’s not a dog. He walks himself. You’re really reaching for an excuse, huh?”

Before he could retort, the grinder whirred, crunching together some beans. Mishima pinched the bridge of his nose, jostling his glasses a little, before giving a pleading look to his computer. It gave him no sympathy as its screen turned black from inactivity. _Asshole._

“Don’t stress it,” Akira said, and the brewer spittled out more of Mishima’s favorite blend. “Do a crossword puzzle, schedule more book-signings, watch some shitty anime. Your next best-seller can take a day off.”

“It’s been _five_ days _,”_ Mishima lamented, running a hand through his shaggy hair. The bangs fell against the rims of his glasses. He kept meaning to get it cut, but life got in the way, whisking him into a turbulent whirlwind of interviews and book deals. He pulled the elastic off his wrist and pulled up his hair into a small ponytail before continuing, “ _Five!_ I don’t think you understand how terrible this is. What if, like, I have _nothing_ for more than just five days? What if it’s five more? Then five months? Or five years? What if I have nothing to write for the rest of my life, and everyone gets super disappointed in me?”

Akira gave no response at first. Mishima bit his thumbnail first, then his forefinger, then the rest in his soothing-but-terrible coping mechanism. The white blotches that painted his nails would never fade at this rate. Behind him, Akira sighed, and Mishima gasped when something soft connected with his head. He blinked, and looked it over. _LeBlanc_ and an embroidered coffee cup gave the otherwise ugly-green apron some character. It sported some fresh stains. 

“Forget writing for now and work with me instead,” Akira said, appearing more casual without the apron. “Flip over the sign on the door, would you? Customers will try to sneak in soon. I’m too tired to withstand more small-talk about some grandchild who’s in the top of their grade or whatever. Guess Sojiro’s rubbing off on me, huh.”

Since Sojiro’s semi-retirement (aka keeping his manager title and making a young Akira in charge of operations as an _assistant_ manager), LeBlanc underwent some aesthetic changes here and there. While the cozy, almost bar-like furniture remained, the splashes of red coated the booths and countertops, and more modern amenities (such as an HD-TV) filled empty spaces. But the smell of curry and coffee lingered unchanged, and Mishima often wondered if his clothes would forever reek of them. 

“What, you don’t want to hear about how their precious youngin’ won some poetry contest for the thirtieth time this month?” He flipped the sign to “CLOSED” before locking the door and turning off the outdoor light. “Heard even that new upstart writer was one of the judges! He _definitely_ doesn’t regret giving the kiddo top marks at all. Not a single day in his life.”

“Join me in my suffering, Yuuki. You caused this to happen.”

“Look, I didn’t know, okay?”

“You’re always on the Internet.” Akira finished stacking the dried plates and moved to where the cleaned mugs were. He hung them on the little silver hooks underneath the cupboards. “Aren’t you supposed to know everything?”

Mishima shook his head as he grabbed a damp washcloth before wiping down the tables. “That’s not how the Internet works. Besides, even if it was, I’ve been so busy with not-working that I don’t have time to be checking the web every ten seconds.”

“You’re working a lot more than you give yourself credit for. You probably don’t even need to work as much as you do, Mr. Japan Times’s Number-One Best Seller For Weeks On End. I mean, you put _everything_ into anything you make, full-throttle. That’s pretty impressive to me, since I just like to coast.”

Now it was Mishima’s turn to snort. “Oh yeah, definitely coasting, Mr. Saved Japan From Imminent Despair And Also Killed God.”

“Hey, slaying deities doesn’t mean I have the willpower to take on projects like you do. Like that phrase from Shakenspeare.”

“ _Shakespeare._ ” The tables cleaned, Mishima moved to the countertop, eying the TV. The anchor previewed a clip of an interview he did a week ago, slotted to air tomorrow morning. He swallowed hard and apologized internally to whoever edited the special; he stammered so much from nerves that half the time he didn’t know if he was even saying _words_ anymore. 

“Whichever. ‘There are those that are born great, those that achieve greatness, and those that have greatness thrust upon them.’ I’m the last guy.” Akira clicked his tongue, frowned, and turned off the TV with the remote. Mishima blinked, returning back to the present. “You done yet? All my prep work’s finished. I wanna do something fun. Or take a nap. Pretty sure my cat’ll try to force me to take a nap.”

“You do know you don’t _have_ to listen to the cat, right?”

Akira’s gaze sharpened as he pushed up his fake-glasses with his middle finger, eyes glinting. “How little you know, foolish Yuuki.”

Mishima rolled his eyes before tossing the damp rag at him. Akira caught it with ease. “There are some things I don’t think I _wanna_ know.”

“That’s a lie and a half, right there. You’re one of the nosiest people I’ve met.”

“Hush.”

They double and triple-checked to ensure everything appeared to be in working order for tomorrow before relocking the front door. Morgana, the black cat with paws strong enough to swat any laptop lid shut at three in the morning, nestled in Akira’s shoulder bag, exaggerating his yawn. Akira chuckled about something - Mishima was convinced by now that he was a cat-whisperer - before replying, “Right, right.”

“What’s right?”

“He said you look like you’re fifty when you stress out like that.”

“ _What?_ ” Mishima faked a gasp. “Not my shockingly-bland youthful looks! How else am I to woo my boyfriend into doing all the household chores? God forbid I have to resort to _other_ tactics.”

Akira snorted. “Other tactics? Like what, actually letting me have some of the blankets when we sleep?”

“That was literally _one_ time.”

“One time is all it takes.”

Mishima shook his head with a laugh, arm draping around Akira’s shoulder. His younger, naive self from high school would be gaping at them, flabbergasted by how casual they were together. Even the act of _bantering_ with the leader of the Phantom Thieves would have been a huge no-no. There were _rules,_ after all - sacred and constructed in some disillusionment that Akira could barely tolerate him. He became the self-appointed PR Manager of their reputation simply to stay involved in Akira’s life somehow (and to propel himself into the spotlight despite being the driving force of their popularity in the shadows). He could not - _would_ not - fathom being anything more than some acquaintance with benefits with Akira.

(Of course, it changed over time no matter how hard he tried to quell his longing for something more. It changed on the hill, where wooden fences marked the graves to the end of civilization, where the trees danced in the dark, where Mishima laid bare beneath the dulled moonlight his weak confession. He balled his clammy fists in his pockets, eyes pointedly staring at the ground, lips dry despite licking them every three seconds. Akira betrayed no flicker of emotion; his cool, disinterested stare burrowed into Mishima’s anxieties as a catalyst and lit every nerve aflame as each word, each painfully honest syllable, nearly became drowned out by the harkening cicadas.

“I,” he said, he whispered, he stammered, he nearly cried, “I think I screwed up. Again. Not just with the Phantom Thieves, but with you, too.”

“With me,” Akira repeated, head tilting to one side.

“Yeah. Yes. Promise me,” Mishima swallowed hard once, then twice, in some failed attempt to alleviate the burning sensation in his throat, “promise me you won’t hate me.”

Akira leaned back, weight shifting from one leg to the other. He rubbed the back of his neck as a small chuckle escaped him. “If I didn’t know any better, it sounds like you’re about to say you’re in love with me.”

One beat passed. Two.

And then Mishima ran.)

Akira jostled him, lazy grin on his face. “Hey, earth to Major Tom, you in there? You’ve got the apartment key. Whatcha thinking about?”

“Huh? Oh.” Mishima glanced up at the modern apartment complex tucked away in some forgotten corner of Tokyo. “Whoops, sorry. I was just thinking about the past and how we, you know.” He forced a cough and fumbled with the keys before getting the door to open. Morgana leaped out of Akira’s bag and made a mad dash for the cat dish, tail thwapping impatiently for his dinner. “How we got together.”

“You mean how you tripped and fell on your own ass and I laughed at you for maybe ten minutes? Then you called me a jerk, hit my shoulder, and you made it up to me by getting ice cream. Solid first date, just FYI. Good times. Knew I loved you for a reason.”

“You can be such a dick. That impromptu date cost all my allowance.”

“Pot, kettle, black. And, hey, you offered.” Akira sniffed the tuna in the fridge, nodded, and then scooped it out onto Morgana’s dish. He meowed, and Akira grinned, patting the cat’s head. “What, you gonna derive inspiration from our movie-worthy confession of feels? Rotten Tomatoes gave it a ten out of ten - witty, original, but needs more grass stains on your uniform pants.”

“That took _way_ too long to get those stains out.” Mishima paused mid-motion, fingers stopping behind his ear from tucking loose strands behind it. He made a thoughtful sound. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea for a subplot. I don’t have any romance in my story yet. Maybe that’s what I need.”

“Do me a solid and make it as gay as we are, yeah?” Akira sauntered over and pecked a kiss against Mishima’s cheek. “You feelin’ rom-com for research tonight? Or you still on your cringey horror-flick binge? I’ll get Netflix set up and everything.”

Mishima sighed, seeing right through his implied questions. “Are we going to actually watch it or just make-out?”

Akira grinned. “That’s still out with the jury.”

“You’re unbelievable sometimes, you know that?”

“Only sometimes?” He clicked his tongue and pouted. Seeing a grown man pout - especially when said-grown man became Japan’s salvation at one point - always felt bizarre to Mishima, but Akira constantly gave him those puppy-dog eyes and pursed those lips to dissuade any given argument. “I’m clearly not doing enough, then.”

“No, no, you’re doing plenty as-is, stop looking at me like that.” Despite himself, Mishima laughed and patted Akira’s shoulder. While having many quirks he got used to over the years, his boyfriend seemed to know how to get Mishima either writing or laughing again. The perfect package. He shooed him. “Go get the rom-com ready, I have to take notes and learn what _not_ to do.”

He was stupid, back then. Fame didn’t bring him nearly as much joy as living with his hero, his inspiration, his best friend, his boyfriend. No book or documentary could capture how important Akira became to him, how he drove Mishima into the blistering February cold to collect signatures from thousands of people he didn’t know in some desperate effort to return the favor of “saving the day.” But he knew now - knew that it wasn’t becoming a _somebody_ that drove him, but a _someone_.

Man. He chuckled to himself. How lucky could he be, loving and being loved by the coolest guy in Tokyo?

“So we _are_ going to make-out, then. Should I put on cherry chapstick?”

“Akira.”

Then again, he really was a Phantom Pain in the Ass sometimes.

“Kidding.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Caught me red-handed. So, cherry or no?”

“...Sure.”

Took one to know one, after all.


End file.
